


just past the edge of our fears

by Kirta



Series: my dreams are not unlike yours [7]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings Online
Genre: Gen, and Apparently these all want to turn into bigger stories, but not this day apparently, entirely without my permission :/, eventually one of these will not be about rangers, i'll be done with this. someday., most of this is supposed to be lighter-hearted in nature but. we'll see how well i manage it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21857995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirta/pseuds/Kirta
Summary: "My dreams are not unlike yours- they long for the safety, and break like a glass chandelier. But there's laughter and oh, there is love- just past the edge of our fears."This is largely a collection of shorter things that don't fit super well into the overall flow of the series such as it is- expanded scenes, different povs, pre- or post-lotro campaign timeline. That sort of thing. Each chapter is its own thingch1: Corunir & Esterín (runekeeper) in the Rohirrim Scout-Camp just after Isengardch2: Radanir & Saeradan & Candaith during the interludes in Wildermorech3: Toradan, Mundol, Reniolind & Isena (warden) & Isedd (lore master) in the human/beorning intro questlinech4: Lorniel, Golodir, Corunir, Laerdan & Esterín in a happier version of Angmarch5: Corunir & Esterín at Cormallen just after Morannonch6: Faeron, Lothrandir, Radanir & Esterín (and the rest of the surviving Grey Company) just before Aragorn and Arwen's weddingch7: Corunir & Est after the end of Black Bookch8: Corunir & Golodir at the very end of the Battle of the Black Gatech9: Golodir & Halbarad the evening before Pelennor
Series: my dreams are not unlike yours [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562503
Comments: 41
Kudos: 17





	1. Corunir & Esterín

**Author's Note:**

> yes i am using rise against lyrics for title inspiration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i will in hindsight regret posting at 230am most likely, but that is a problem for not-230am-me. [i did and it was]
> 
> set immediately after the escape from isengard, once you get back to the camp and take a much-needed nap
> 
> Esterín is my elven runekeeper, the pov character for most of this series

Saeradan tells him of their runekeeper's escape when Corunir returns from the forward camp at the edge of Tâl Methedras. What little there is to tell, anyway- she and the Rohirrim she had escaped with had both been near collapse when they stumbled into the scout-camp and they sleep still. Esterín doesn't so much as shift when Corunir enters the tent he had shared with Braigiar before- well. Before. She is still clothed in grey prison-rags that smell faintly of iron and of sulfur and if Corunir were perhaps a bit bolder he would change them out for something less grimy. He instead picks through what spare or cast-off gear of his brothers and sisters remains in the scout-camp for any that look of a size that would fit Esterín. He leaves the offering beside her and wanders through the Gravenwood gathering smooth stones to pass the time.

He is, of course, out when at last she wakes. He enters the tent to retrieve something from his own bags and doesn’t notice that she has woken until she calls his name. He turns and she is watching him, elf-eyes sharp as ever. His smile feels as if it must crack his face in two- but perhaps it is just that there has been so little cause for cheer in recent weeks. He kneels at Esterín’s side and opens his arms in invitation. She leans into the embrace with a long exhale and he folds his arms gently around her, wary of hidden injury. He need not worry- the hug is tight, even for her, and she gives no sign that it pains her. She is shaking, he realizes, and holds her tighter. Corunir remembers well the passage across the Rammas Deluon and the aftermath. Their positions had been reversed then, but the scene had been much the same.

In time she pulls away and looks with distaste on her attire. She eyes the clothing and armor Corunir has collected. “Is that for me?” He nods and the relief is naked on her face. She near tears the hole-ridden cloth in her haste to be rid of it. Corunir hesitates but she seems not to notice or care that he is still there. He means to ask if she would rather he left but the words die at the sight of the scars. 

Esterín has had scars for as long as Corunir has known her- a long life lived often in dangerous places leaves its mark. Corunir has seen many of them by chance during his travels with the runekeeper, but many of those he sees now are new. One, large and covering much of her right shoulder and stretching far down the chest, looks to be a burn, barely healed. What hint of a smile Corunir still clings to fades into sadness at the evidence of his friend’s pain. She catches his eye and shrugs. 

“I am here. I live.” Many of their friends are not so fortunate. It goes unsaid but not unthought. Esterín examines several pairs of boots until she settles on a pair that fits. Prestadír’s, Corunir thinks. There is a dagger strapped to the side and she draws it, testing the edge. Corunir has just enough time to worry before she takes the blade to her hair, grown far longer than he has ever seen it. She saws roughly at a handful of hair, leaving it messy and uneven.

“Stop, stop!” Corunir laughs, reaching for the dagger. “Let me.” She yields the dagger with reluctance but sits willingly enough as Corunir cuts away at her hair with the ease of long practice.

“As short as it was before,” she says quietly. Corunir nearly misses it.

“I will do my best,” he says. His best is really quite good- he has done this for others many times before. Esterín examines the results in a sheet of beaten metal and smiles. It is so faint Corunir nearly thinks it isn’t there at all. 

She is dressed fully as a ranger now. If her ears, pointed and highlighted by the shortness of her hair, are ignored she would easily pass for one of the Dúnedain. Corunir tells her as much and after a breath her smile grows, unfurling like the first spring flowers after a long winter. Corunir smiles back and thinks, for the first time in longer than he will admit even to himself, that there is still hope for the Grey Company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i suppose if i want to be accurate, Esterín is not actually her name, but Iatethri isn't very Tolkien-elvish so I translated it (approximate translation)


	2. Radanir, Saeradan & Candaith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set during the second and third of the interludes you can see when you're in wildermore, bc they showed up just when i thought i was done being sad about the grey company
> 
> hm. warning for blood maybe? it's pretty tame tbh but if that's not ur thing
> 
> (don't think too hard about the timeline lmao)

They watch the Oath-breakers of the Forsaken Road pass them by in silence. Saeradan’s face is carefully blank, revealing nothing. Radanir’s is hard, his teeth clenched tight enough to ache. They bring a fell chill with them that the rangers know far too well. The cursed shades pass and Radanir shudders. He gazes into the distance until Saeradan's hand falls on his shoulder.

"The Forsaken Road is empty," Radanir says. Saeradan understands his intent almost before he thinks it. 

"We should bring them out while we have the chance," Saeradan agrees. They return to the Forsaken Road, grim. Saeradan seems at ease, or at least not ill at ease, and Radanir tries to emulate his calm. It is difficult, here within wet stone walls chilled by the Dead and haunted still, for all the ghosts have departed. Radanir keeps one eye always on Saeradan, unwilling to lose another brother to these tunnels. It is because he is watching that he sees Saeradan's facade crack when they find the first body. Hodhon, come with Calenglad from Tinnudir to join the Grey Company. They carry him above ground once more and return for the others.

They are better preserved than they have any right to be, between the rats and the water and the time that has passed. Perhaps the chill of the Oath-breakers discourages even the progression of decay.

Radanir's hand shakes as they carry Calithil out. He thinks of happier times in the wilds near Rivendell and it hurts. He will have to tell Elweleth of Calithil's death, he realizes. They had all three been companions often over the years. Linnor is easier- for Radanir if not for Saeradan- and Himeldir, neither having been as dear to Radanir or as well known.

They both know Candaith will be the worst. Radanir had grown up with him and he was nearly as common a sight at Saeradan's cabin as Saeradan himself. Radanir steels himself and rests a hand on Saeradan's shoulder, for both their comfort. It takes some time to locate the deep chamber where Candaith and Esterín had confronted Britou, but when at last they do they find a sight unexpected.

A dome rests on the uneven floor, glowing faintly. Roughly oval in shape, it rises to Radanir's knee at its highest point and shrouds an area that could easily hold a Man's body. Radanir and Saeradan watch as one of the large rats scurries close to the dome and sniffs at it. The rat's nose touches the edge and there is a spark and a burst of light and the scent of burning fur. The rat is thrown ten feet back and lands gracelessly. It smokes and does not rise again.

"Fantastic," Radanir says. "What is this?"

"I have no idea," Saeradan says.

Radanir steps closer to the dome. The light intensifies as he draws near before flaring briefly and subsiding to the point of translucence. Radanir reaches into the dome before either Saeradan or his own common sense can stop him. The dome fades into nothing and Candaith- revealed now and somehow, after nearly three months, _alive_ \- takes a shallow breath. The light of Saeradan’s torch glints off the fresh blood that soaks Candaith’s back and Radanir scrambles for the runestone he keeps in a hidden pocket just over his breast. Saeradan kneels beside him with another runestone and Radanir has never been so glad that Esterín insisted that they learn this, not even when they found Braigiar in Tûr Morva.

These runes are not powerful and they are not skilled in their use, but together it is enough to stop the bleeding. Candaith does not wake- not during their desperate ministrations nor when they carry him as gently as they are able to the surface nor when they lay him down to prepare a camp for the night. His right hand is clenched around something they cannot see.

The scene is familiar in an eerie way. It had taken Braigiar days to wake when they had found him, alive against impossible odds, and he had waited only a week. It has been months for Candaith, preserved somehow by the strange dome of light deep in the tunnels of the Dead. Radanir resolves not to worry if Candaith does not wake for some time. Saeradan seems both able and willing to worry enough for the both of them, anyway.

Travel is an obstacle the next morning. They have stabilized Candaith as much as they are able in the wild, but they cannot leave him resting on his back when even the briefest contact could open the terrible wound again. Neither can they secure him in the bed of their wagon, filled with their own dead. In the end, Saeradan steers the wagon one-handed, the other arm holding Candaith upright and leaned against his shoulder. Radanir walks at times beside them and at others ranging ahead or to the rear to keep watch.

They reach Lhanuch without incident and Radanir would be suspicious of their good fortune if Saeradan were not with him. Radanir goes alone into Lhanuch. He wonders with black humor if the Uch-lûth will turn as the Hebog-lûth did. Glynn Brenin seems honestly angered by Lheu Brenin’s weakness, though the Draig-lûth raid does more to convince Radanir of the Brenin’s position. The worms unleashed in Lhanuch are not yet full-grown but they are still large enough to terrorize the people of Lhanuch. They are dangerous creatures to fight alone and Radanir has little time to spare on worry for Saeradan and Candaith. He puts down another one by the gates and steals a moment to breathe. The wagon sits still on the hill below him. Candaith is slumped sideways on the driver’s bench and Saeradan is nowhere in sight. Radanir hears the _thump-thump-slither_ of another worm behind him but he turns too slow to meet it.

\---

Candaith never is sure, even years later, when he finally woke. He remembers an endless expanse of grey like mist in the hills at dawn and at times voices, some familiar but most not. His eyes open at last on twilight outside of Lhanuch and the first thing he sees is Radanir, pinned beneath a scaled worm and screaming through clenched teeth as it savages his shoulder. Candaith’s body is slow to respond as he stands. Pain burns down his back and a smooth stone drops unnoticed from his fingers. Candaith grits his teeth and pulls himself straight. He is armed only with the dagger he keeps in his boot but Radanir has no time for him to find a better weapon.

Wherever he has been and for however long, it has not dulled years of training and of practice moving unseen by another creature. The worm does not realize its peril until Candaith’s dagger is already buried in its eye. It screams as it dies and collapses atop Radanir. Candaith sets his feet and leans into the worm’s corpse but the pain in his back he has been ignoring redoubles and drives him to his knees before he can move it. He can barely even make out Radanir calling his name.

\---

A day and two nights later, Candaith is able to stand without tearing open the wound on his back and undoing the hard work of Lhanuch’s healers. He wanders the village by starlight until he comes to the wagon he had woken in. Radanir and Saeradan had explained little of what had happened, saying only that it had been far too long since they had seen him. Candaith cares not at all for the implications of their words.

“Candaith?” Radanir’s voice stops his hand, halfway to the rough cloth that hides the contents of the wagon from view. “I did not expect to see you out here.”

“From what little you have told me, I think I may have rested quite long enough.”

Radanir laughs but the sound is forced. “I doubt the healers here would agree.”

“They would, in fact, tell us both off for being up and about and ruining their work.” Candaith smiles. “But then, there is hardly anything new about that.” Radanir’s laughter is less forced now and Candaith counts it a victory. He lets his hand fall to his side. “What has happened, Radanir? Where is the rest of the Company, and what is in this wagon?”

Radanir is silent for a long moment. “Some things are better said under the light of day.” Candaith’s face hardens and Radanir sighs. “But if you would have the tale from me now, in part or in whole, I will not keep it from you.”

“Tell me,” Candaith says. They sit together beneath the stars and Radanir tells him what has become of their friends in the past three months- their grief after his own presumed death, the betrayal at Tûr Morva and Lothrandir and Esterín’s imprisonment in Isengard, the departure of Prince Théodred and the Rohirrim. Candaith’s breath is uneven and he leans into Radanir’s unwounded shoulder. So much has happened. He has missed so much, held in some strange limbo in the Forsaken Road. It is too much to comprehend all at once. “The wagon?” He feels Radanir’s breath, forced steady.

“Leave it for tonight, my friend,” he says. There is a touch of desperation to his voice and it is that which convinces Candaith to heed him. “No good will come of it now.”

“Until morning, then,” Candaith says. They are both silent for a time and Candaith begins to drift, his body weakened still by the terrible wound down his whole back dealt him by Britou’s shade. He only just makes out Saeradan’s voice as he sits on Candaith’s other side. Something soft falls over him.

“We have missed you dearly, Candaith. Sleep well, brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah so i am apparently unable to leave candaith dead. i tried to, bc i thought it was thematically important n shit, but then i said 'fuck it, this is what fic is for anyway' and now candaith is not dead
> 
> the runestone that's been protecting candaith means something between 'preserve' and 'protect' and when it was activated, it took 'preserve' in a way that meant 'stick candaith in limbo for awhile', tho it released the protection bc it recognizes radanir and saeradan as non-threats, unlike the rats or the cursed ghosts. is candaith ok? physically, he will be. mentally? maybe less so


	3. Toradan, Mundol, Reniolind, Isena & Isedd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> isena and isedd are human warden and lore-master, respectively. i made the two of them in-game fairly recently and so played the human/beorning intro quests recently, and especially compared to every other race's intro it's just. the worst! so i wrote another thing where you can use your heals on npcs to prevent their plot-ordered deaths bc that's what i do
> 
> update: this one piece has since been expanded into isena & isedd adventures starting at 'these are delicate days'

They are riding for Combe nearly before Brackenbrook is finished speaking. Even if a grim ranger was not in itself a cause for concern, they both agree that they still owe the rangers for their rescue from the Blackwolds, however coincidental it may have been. 

Toradan is indeed grim. That had been no exaggeration on Jon’s part. Toradan still holds out hope that Amdir can be saved and Isena is willing to try. She knows little of the meaning of a morgul blade; her brother’s face says he knows more. His hopes are not as high as hers but he agrees to try anyway. Side by side they enter the Blackwolds’ hideout.

Amdir looks so much worse. It has only been a few days since they last saw him in Archet but he is even paler now. His skin is nearly translucent and Isena thinks that if the light hits just so, she will be able to see straight through him. Torchlight flickers and Isena frowns. She _can_ see straight through him. Isedd’s breath catches but before he can speak Amdir screams. The sound drives Isena and Isedd both to their knees right beside the brigands that fill the cave. It hurts, but it seems to her that it must hurt less than whatever is happening to Amdir. There is an edge to the scream that no mortal voice can produce- it is far more like the cry of the Black Rider amid the flames- but beneath it is only the sound of a Man in terrible pain.

The door to the cell bursts from its hinges and very suddenly they are surrounded by enemies. Isena catches the first one on her shield and throws him back at his companions. 

“Yes, this was a perfect time to leave Bear outside!” she shouts at Isedd. His staff cracks down onto another head.

“Terribly sorry I wasn’t expecting our undercover infiltration to need quite so much muscle.”

The rest of the Blackwolds scatter in Amdir’s wake. Sara Oakheart reclaims her staff and whacks one or two over the head with surprising glee. She stands well behind Isena and Isedd and Isena has no thoughts to spare for the old woman. She _knows_ , as Amdir’s voice rises with his arm, what is coming, but Toradan stands opposite her, Amdir in between, and she is too slow to stop it. She launches her spear but it catches only air as Amdir vanishes into the night and Toradan collapses.

Isedd is already at his side, a pale light glowing between his hands. “Sit him up,” he orders. In these matters alone will Isena obey without question. Toradan is shaking and struggling for every breath. Isena supports him and hushes him gently as the light in Isedd’s hands grows. When it fades, Toradan is still trembling. His skin is cold and he is soaked in his own blood, but his breath is steady and he yet lives.

“Let’s get out of here,” Isena says. She supports Toradan out of the cave and up the winding path, slick with spray from the waterfall. Sara Oakheart is nowhere to be seen.

The great advantage to leaving Isedd’s great brown bear outside of the caves is that the horses are still there, undisturbed by either Amdir or the fleeing Blackwolds. Isedd climbs into Leitha’s saddle and together they wrestle Toradan up in front of him. Isena mounts Smelly and turns his head towards Combe.

“The Mustering Cave,” Toradan says. “Mundol. We must-”

“The only thing _we must_ is get you somewhere you can rest,” Isedd snaps. Toradan is just this side of conscious and is only kept upright by Isedd’s arm. He shakes his head and even with Isedd’s grip he nearly topples. “You can barely sit, let alone walk.”

Isena sighs as Toradan tries to fight Isedd. He is weak enough that even her brother can restrain him with ease. “Isedd. If Amdir is hunting his brothers now, where could we leave him that’s safe? Wounded or not, he will be safer with us.” Toradan shoots her a grateful look. “Where is this Mustering Cave of yours?”

“Across the Midgewater. Beyond the old fort.”

“We won’t be able to ride through the Marsh in the dark,” Isedd says. His eyes are distant in the way Isena knows means he is deep in thought. She smiles. “Walk by night or ride by light. We have hours yet until dawn- Toradan, how quickly will Amdir be able to cover the same distance?”

“If he left now… it would be nearly noon tomorrow. At least, it would be for a Man. Now…”

“We have no other estimates on which to base our plans,” Isena says. She eyes Toradan. “And what of you?” Toradan shivers and straightens.

“I am fine. We have to go.” Isedd rolls his eyes and Isena nearly laughs.

“We can beat Amdir if we circle around the northern edge of the Marsh by the light of day,” Isedd says. “For now, we should rest.” Toradan mutters something Isena can’t make out. “You can grumble when you have the strength to sit up alone, ranger.”

Isena leads them down the hill to a sheltered hollow at its foot. They light no fire but Toradan’s shivering worsens until they can hear his teeth chattering in the still night. At last Isedd calls Bear over and coaxes Toradan up against his flank. Isena and Isedd settle on either side of Toradan and ever so slowly his shivers ease.

The dawn is slow in coming. All three of them are restless and they are moving even before they can make out more colors than grey. Toradan rides behind Isena on Leitha this time and they make as much haste as they dare in the dimness. The sun is far too close to noon when Toradan points out the entrance to the rangers’ cave. He is inside before either Isena or Isedd have dismounted, stumbling in his haste. Isena does not care for the cry that echoes out to them.

Mundol lies in a growing puddle of blood. The pool is small still- this was recently done. Toradan is at his side, speaking softly. Isedd drops to his knees as soon as he sees Mundol is still alive.

“Amdir was just here,” Mundol says. “Reniolind. In the old Marshwater Fort. Please-” he chokes on a wet cough. Isedd’s light shines again.

“He is young still. Only a few years out of childhood, really,” Toradan says. He starts to stand. “We can’t-” Isedd orders someone to hold Mundol, oblivious to the rest of the conversation. Isena pushes Toradan back down.

“Follow when you can,” Isena says. She turns and runs. Toradan’s questions fade behind her.

Leitha and Smelly hail from the northernmost plains of Rohan, the same as Isena and Isedd. Leitha has the endurance to carry twice as much and still keep pace with all but the finest of horses. She is strong, but Smelly is _fast_. He is moving well before Isena has settled in the saddle, flying across the Midgewater as if he was born here. Isena drops from his back when they reach the ruins and stomps her way through the overgrown spiders that infest the place.

Reniolind nearly attacks her when she bursts through the door. He is still alive and uninjured. He knows nothing of what has befallen his kin in the past week until Isena tells him. Toradan was right, Isena thinks. Reniolind is younger even than her youngest sister.

“We must get to Bree. These caves run most of the way back- this way.”

Amdir waits in the depths. Even now, Reniolind tries to reach him. To save him. More than anything, Isena wants to believe that it can be done, but Toradan had tried this too and nearly paid with his life. She keeps her shield up and does not relax her guard. 

She is fast enough this time. She knocks Reniolind aside and staggers under the force of Amdir’s blow. Her spear flashes in the torchlight and Amdir cries out. The sound is more wraith than Man, now.

“Morin!” Amdir shouts into the darkness above them. He flees. Isena hears Reniolind call warning just before something hot and sharp drives into her back. The weight forces her to her knees. She spins her spear in her hand and stabs blindly over her head. She hits something but it is still a small eternity more until the thing releases her. She falls. After a moment she hears Reniolind calling her name. She uses her spear to pull herself up and staggers after Amdir.

Amdir himself is long gone by the time they make it into the daylit woods beyond the tunnels, and there is little sign of his passing. Isena’s right shoulder burns and there is an alien weakness in her legs. It is not caused by blood loss- although she is still bleeding- and so she assumes poison. She never had stopped to look at what had stabbed her from behind. She sinks to the ground with a quiet groan. Reniolind is at her side when she looks up.

“Let me see,” he says. His voice is steady, impressively so for all that has happened in the last half hour. Isena has no strength to fight him even if she were so inclined as he examines the wound. “You said your brother was not far behind you with Toradan and Mundol. How exactly did you two come to be so involved with my brothers?” It is a ploy to keep her aware and engaged and she knows it. She has seen Isedd do the same many times.

“We were rescued from a Blackwold cell by Amdir and Strider. They weren’t there for us, but they helped us anyway. We agreed that we owed the rangers for their help- when we heard that a ranger was asking for aid we went and met Toradan. We’ve spent the last day and a half trying to track you down before Amdir did.”

Reniolind laughs once. “From the sound of things, I rather think it is we who are indebted to you, now.” His hands slow in their work. “Were you with Amdir when…”

“Yes,” Isena says very quietly. “None of us could reach him in time, and afterwards… He kept telling Strider to leave and not to worry.” She takes a deep breath and releases it bit by bit.

“He knew what was coming.” Reniolind’s voice is distant. “We all know to fear a morgul blade.” His voice catches. “He must have been terrified.”

Something moves in the underbrush. Reniolind is on his feet, bow in hand, squarely between Isena and the unknown creature. Isena pulls herself up, wincing at the pain in her shoulder. The creature sniffs at the air and growls. The sound is familiar.

“Bear?”

“Perhaps,” Reniolind says. “We should-”

“Hey, Bear! Over here!”

“What are you doing?” Reniolind hisses. Isena looks over.

“What am I..? Oh.” Bear comes bounding out of the trees straight for Isena. She pushes Reniolind’s bow aside. “Reniolind, this is Bear, a friend of my brother’s. Bear, this is Reniolind.” Bear sniffs first at Isena and then suspiciously at Reniolind, who looks equally wary. Isena looks up and sees a white owl circling above.

“At your service… Master Bear.” Bear sniffs at Reniolind again and licks him once.

“That means he likes you,” Isena says. She sits and waits until she can hear two sets of hoofbeats approaching.

“I want nothing to do with another one of these hairy, overgrown spiders,” she announces when Leitha and Smelly emerge from the trees. Her shirt is in shreds and her armor lies beside her, a gaping hole punched in the back. Isedd comes and looks her over critically while Reniolind helps Mundol and Toradan down from the horses. “I much prefer the pests we had at home.”

“You mean the marauding orcs that set our house on fire?” Isedd does not look away from his task. Isena laughs.

“Yes. Those ones.”

Mundol and Toradan are both still weak, though they are at least not seriously injured any longer. Isena is injured but stronger than either of them at the moment. They make for Bree with as much speed as they are able, eager not to stay alone and so weakened in the wilderness.

“This will place all three of you and your captain in the same place,” Isedd says. “Amdir may very well come after you even in the middle of Bree if he learns that you have survived.”

“Perhaps,” Toradan says. “But we stand a better chance together than apart.” Isena nods to herself and leans on Bear for support.

Isena nearly pities Barliman Butterbur. There are far more rangers than he is comfortable with standing in his common room, some of them clearly not well. Then again, the number of rangers he is comfortable with might peak at one.

Strider- Aragorn, after he abandons the pretense- bundles all five of them into his room at once. None of them are small people and it is a tight fit. He hears their tale in full and afterwards examines each of his men for himself. He offers the same attention to Isena and Isedd with thanks for protecting his kin. The conversation lulls and he sighs.

“We must deal with Amdir, and soon.” What levity they have found fades to grimness. They are all too aware of this truth. “For tonight, though, rest here.” He leaves them in the room for a time and returns with warm food enough for all of them. It is not long before the weight of the last two days begins to press down upon them. Mundol is the first asleep, curled into the corner in the single small bed. Toradan is near nodding off, too, and at Aragorn’s urging he wraps his cloak around himself and lays down beside Mundol. Isena is half-asleep herself, staring blankly at the far wall. She starts when Isedd’s hand falls on her shoulder.

“We should go,” he says quietly. Isena _hmm_ s but doesn’t stand just yet.

“You are welcome to stay, if you wish,” Aragorn says. “Although,” he looks around the crowded room. “I understand if you do not.” Isedd looks at Isena as if he expects her to have some input on this decision. She folds her arms and lays her head down on the small table. He laughs.

Isena’s eyes are closed before she knows it. She tracks the others by their voices though she doesn’t bother to separate one word from another. Something warm and smelling of pine needles falls over her and she sighs contentedly. Reniolind’s voice falls silent, and in time so does Isedd’s. She hears the clatter of empty wooden dishes as someone clears away what remains of their meal, and some time after that a breath that blows out a candle. After that she knows no more.

They never are able to save Amdir, but Bear answers to his name for many years afterwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry amdir


	4. Lorniel, Golodir, Corunir, Laerdan & Esterín [au]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. like candaith, i decided that even important deaths are perfectly allowed to be undone if you just Feel Like It and then i wrote 4.5k words of lorniel not being dead, which maybe got a bit rushed-feeling at the end bc there needs to be a part 2 but those are problems for later as it is now bedtime for me

The rush of wind in her ears is far louder than the voices of her friends. She feels impossibly light for a few brief moments. There is a burst of pain, everywhere, and then nothing.

\---

_Nothing truly ends._

"Get her up. We have to go."

"Is it safe to move her?" A pause. "Esterín?"

"We have no choice." Exhaustion. "We cannot stay here "

_Se ú navaer._

"Corunir?"

"I have him."

Movement. Sensation reaches for her. It hurts.

"Lorniel? Can you hear me?"

Can she?

"She needs… must leave."

Voices in darkness. She knows them. But from where?

_This is not over yet._

"Lunathron, behind you!"

Family. Her oldest friends. No different, really. It's been so long since she has seen them all together. They must be home, or on their way there.

"Here. Where is the key?"

Clanking. A metallic scrape.

It has been too long since they watched the sun rise over the mountains together. Even on cloudy days she loves the sight. And in the evenings you can just convince yourself that the glint in the west is the sun on the distant lake.

"Thoriel?"

"Here. The way is clear, but it will not long remain that way."

_Cuio!_

Time passes. She retreats into warm darkness.

"We made it."

Relief.

"She needs to rest. Let her."

Lorniel sleeps.

\---

She is alone when she wakes. She is in her own blankets and she feels heavy. She frowns at the ceiling. No room in Esteldín has such a roof. Voices call out beyond a wooden door, strangely accented. She is not in Esteldín, of course. She has not been able to leave Angmar in years. This is her room in the caves of Gath Forthnír. Why had she thought otherwise?

She pulls herself upright. Her body aches, though it is more similar to the widespread soreness she associates with illness rather than with physical exertion. It is worst along her back and neck and she struggles to recall anything. She stretches carefully and thinks. She remembers the skirmish with Bogbereth’s spawn, the one that had come far too close to Gath Forthnír for comfort. She remembers Corunir’s arrival with Braigiar and their new friend, an elf woman claiming to be sent by Aragorn. Lorniel’s friends had seemed at ease with Esterín, and for her own part Lorniel had been too happy to see them again to be properly suspicious of the newcomer. Esterín has proved herself well enough, though, and Lorniel is not at all sure they would have made it inside Carn Dûm without her. Within the walls- within the walls, her memory comes up blank. She remembers passing the first gate. She remembers searching the faces of fallen bodies for… someone. She remembers darkness and hazy dreams. She sighs and opens the door. She will have to ask the others, then.

“Lorniel!”

Thoriel is the first to see her. She leaps to her feet and wraps Lorniel in a tight hug. It hurts, but not much more than anything else does at the moment. Lorniel still winces. Thoriel drops her arms. “Sorry.” Before Lorniel can say anything, Thoriel darts around the bend of the tunnel. “Hey! Lunathron! Get over here!” She reappears and grins at Lorniel. “It’s about time, you know. We were starting to think you were going to sleep through the rest of this fight and leave it all to us.” Lorniel laughs.

“Never. You know me better than that.”

Lunathron appears. His face lights when he sees Lorniel and he pulls her into a hug with more caution than Thoriel had. “You never have stayed out of a fight once it was presented to you.” 

Lorniel pulls back. “And you have?”

“Usually I am only following you.”

Thoriel snorts. “I would hardly say _usually_.”

“Hey-”

Thoriel and Lunathron descend into friendly bickering. Arms fall across Lorniel’s shoulders as they pull her towards the central cavern. 

Lorniel guesses it to be late in the evening by the company in the cavern. Most of the elves are still awake, together with half the dwarves and only a handful of the Men. This means she gets far more friendly pats and well-intentioned if heavy-handed thumps than too-tight embraces, and just now she is grateful for that. There are many inquiries into her well-being and congratulations on a plan well-executed. The plan, the plan. There is too much happening all at once. What was the plan again? Esterín appears from the sea of faces and smiles at her.

“And Laerdan just convinced Golodir to rest.”

Lorniel’s smile freezes. Of course. How could she have forgotten. A rescue. She turns away from the crowd gathering to celebrate her waking. Lunathron catches her eye and nudges Thoriel beside him. They clear a hole in the ring with quiet words and a few elbows and as soon as Lorniel has the space, she runs. She slows to a walk after leaving the crowded cavern. Whatever happened that she cannot remember has left her drained and the path past the pool is treacherous on the best of days.

She can hear movement in her father’s room when she comes to the door. It has long been silent, the room left empty at her insistence, waiting against a desperate hope. She will never admit, not even to Thoriel and Lunathron, just how thin that hope had grown in the last year. She does not know what she would have done if this rescue had failed. She takes a deep breath and knocks. The movement stops. Footsteps approach.

“Laerdan, if you are coming to see if I am resting, I can assure you-” The door creaks open and Golodir stops short when he sees her. They stare at each other for a long moment before Lorniel laughs and throws herself forward, arms wide. Golodir staggers under her weight but his arms close around her and he does not let go. “Lorniel…” She laughs again and realizes she is crying.

“Hello, Father.”

It is several minutes before either of them pull away. Both their faces are streaked with tears and Lorniel’s smile feels liable to split her face. There are so many things she wants to say and to ask, but her father speaks first.

“How do you feel?”

Lorniel shakes her head. “I’m fine. Just a little sore.” Golodir watches her closely. “Honestly!” The gap in her memory seems more serious suddenly. “Besides, should I not be asking how you feel?”

“Hm. I am as well as can be expected.”

Lorniel eyes him suspiciously. “What does that mean.”

“I am tired,” he says simply. “Truly, Lorniel, you are only sore?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she says, perhaps too defensively. “Should I not be?” Something dark flickers across Golodir’s face. “Father?”

Golodir sighs and sits heavily on the edge of the bed. “Do you not remember?”

“Very little between passing the first gates of the city and waking here,” she admits. She sits beside him, their shoulders touching. “What happened?”

“I can say little of your passage through the city,” he says quietly. “I saw your entry at the second gate before Mordirith brought me to the gates of the inner city. The gates opened and there you were.” A faint smile crosses his face. “And with a small army at your back, it seemed. And then- he threw you." Golodir falls silent. Lorniel tries to picture the scene but imagination and memory both fail her. "I thought I lost you then." _Weightlessness_. "A fall from that height would have claimed all but the luckiest." _Dark_. Golodir continues but Lorniel doesn't hear him. There is something in her mind now. She had believed it a dream when she woke but now she is less certain.

" _Se ú navaer_ ," she whispers. Golodir's voice stops. She brushes her fingers against the back of her head and wonders if she imagines the tenderness there. She shudders and presses closer to Golodir. "I think… I think I very nearly did not leave Carn Dûm alive." Golodir pulls her close and suddenly she is no warrior, no captain of the Free Peoples. She is just a young girl who wants her father to make things right. She clings to him and weeps as she hasn't since she was fifteen and her friends began dying for a cause they barely understood. Golodir smooths her hair and holds her until the storm has passed. She wipes her face and sniffles. "I missed you, Ada."

"I missed you too, Lorniel." He pulls away only enough to meet her eyes. “Thank you for saving me.”

There are other things to discuss, of course. Years' worth of things. But they are content for tonight simply to keep each other's company and revel in the fact that they are both alive and free.

When she finally leaves her father’s room, Lorniel finds that the caves are nearly silent. Even those who keep the latest hours are asleep. She is wrung out and exhausted both physically and emotionally, but she is not yet ready to return to her room. She wanders the tunnels instead, until she finds herself at a small ledge overlooking the pool. She comes here often when she wants to be alone. The others either have not noticed or have elected to give her her peace when she comes here.

There is someone else here tonight. Corunir’s head turns at her approach. He tries to shuffle to the side to make space for her, but this ledge is small even for one. One of them could leave, she supposes, wedging herself into what space there is, but Corunir was here first and for her own part she doesn't mind sharing. Legs dangling, she leans over the ledge to survey the pool. It is clear today, enough so that she can see the reflection of torchlight on veins of iron in the rocks. Corunir's hand closes around her arm and when she looks back his face is strained. She smiles and scoots away from the drop.

"You still worry too much, I see."

He does not let go of her arm. "You nearly died once this week already. I think I am allowed to worry a little bit more than usual." Lorniel's smile goes fond. She leans into Corunir and feels his nearly imperceptible sigh of relief. His arm goes around her shoulders and for a time they sit in silence. "Are you alright?"

She is not yet certain. "I am still here."

"That's not an answer."

Corunir has been in Gath Forthnír a week now but they have had little opportunity to talk as old friends. A conversation like this is perhaps overdue.

"I think I died. Or something that was very close to dying. Are _you_ alright?"

"I- _what_?"

"Are you alright."

" _Lorniel_."

"What? I thought that common knowledge by everyone’s reactions to my waking. Anyway, you said you were in Aughaire for some time. What have you been doing all these years?" Corunir does not respond, caught between questioning her further and confronting her question. Lorniel thinks she knows the answer anyway. "Have you really been there all this time?" she asks quietly. Corunir takes a deep breath.

"Golodir told me to stay and so I stayed."

"That is not what he meant and you know it."

Corunir shrugs. "After the watch-stone trap activated I thought…" He sighs. "I tried to follow you but I could not pass the stones. I sent messages when I could, but until recently none of them made it beyond the Ram Dúath." He shivers once. "Even with Esterín's help I barely made it through. All I could see was the trap. Palandur and all the others who fell are still there, you know.”

“Corunir.”

“It’s been years of course, so there is little left but bones, but no creature living or dead has disturbed them.”

“ _Corunir_.”

He shakes himself and looks at her sheepishly. “Sorry.” Lorniel pulls herself upright so that she can better hug him.

“Thank you,” she says. For braving the stones for them, for bringing help, for following her into Carn Dûm. “We were losing hope here. Your arrival could not have been better timed.” Corunir huffs a disbelieving laugh. “I am serious, Corunir.” After a moment she speaks again. “I dreamed we were all back in Esteldín while I was… asleep. You and me and Lunathron, Palandur, Aberia. Everyone. We were watching the sunrise over the mountains and Haelas was complaining that it was far too early to be awake. You were more worried about getting caught, because we were supposed to be in our beds still.” Lorniel grins. “You were right, as you often are. We near had our ears scolded off, though I think your mother was just trying not to laugh.”

Corunir laughs softly. “I miss those days.”

“So do I.” Lorniel sighs. “Do you know anything of the others?”

“Until I made it here, all I knew for sure about any of us was that Palandur was dead.”

“I thought as much. There is still much to be done here anyway.”

When her eyes grow heavy, Lorniel bids Corunir goodnight and winds her way back through the tunnels to her room. 

They throw a feast, or at least such a feast as they are able, to celebrate Lorniel’s recovery and Golodir’s rescue. Areneth and Thorth pilfer extra Angmarim supplies from the outskirts of Carn Dûm for the occasion. Lorniel catches sight of Laerdan speaking with Esterín during the festivities, and the next day she is nowhere to be found. When Lorniel questions Laerdan, he tells her that Esterín is helping him with a gift for Golodir. Lorniel accepts it and turns her attention to the war they are still in the thick of.

There is still so much to do. Lorniel and Laerdan spend much of the next two weeks explaining their situation to Golodir. He says little of what happened to him but has much to offer on the workings of Carn Dûm and the politics of the servants of the Iron Crown.

Esterín returns with several bundles. The larger part of them is supplies for Gath Forthnír as a whole- food and arms and armor and a single young sapling from Rivendell that Esterín says will survive in Angmar’s harsher air. Lorniel is no botanist, but several of the elves recognize the tree and cluster around it speaking excitedly in their own tongue. Esterín brings the last bundle to Golodir where he is eating with Lorniel and Laerdan and presents it with a small smile. 

“It was Laerdan’s idea,” she explains as Golodir marvels at his old gear, taken from him after his capture but now as brilliant as the day it was first forged. Esterín pulls a pained face. “The blades had to be taken to Imladris for repair. Hemeldir had many thoughts on their design and spoke of them at length.” Blades? As far as Lorniel remembers, Golodir had had only one of note, the sword passed to him from his mother. Her father’s face mirrors her own confusion. Esterín hastens to explain.

“The sword itself was in poor condition to begin with and was broken when I was recovering it. The larger part of it Hemeldir made into Forhathel, the sword, and with the remains he forged Pinachar, the dagger.” There are indeed two blades, both finely crafted and star-bright. They bear little resemblance to Golodir’s old sword, but when Lorniel takes them from her father to examine the grips are familiar as her father’s sword ever was.

“Halbarad sends his greetings, and Daervunn wants it to be known that he is very upset with all of you for disappearing for years without any word.”

Lorniel smiles. It sounds like Daervunn.

Golodir gives her the dagger later. 

“This sword has long been in our family,” he says, handing it to her. “Now that it lives in two blades, it seems only fitting to pass some part of it on.” Lorniel draws the blade and cuts at an invisible foe. Golodir watches her with a smile. “The Little Avenger. A fitting name, I think.” Lorniel grins.

Lorniel follows her father back into Carn Dûm with Esterín, Throst, and Artain to find Mordirith. Golodir all but begged her not to come, but this fight is nearly as personal for her as it is for him. It is larger too than their wishes; Lorniel is one of the best warriors in Gath Forthnír and they will need all the strength they can manage to reach the False King.

Esterín stops Lorniel before they enter the city and holds out a carved stone bearing a familiar symbol. 

“Save it for my father,” Lorniel says, as she did before their first strike into the heart Angmar. Esterín’s face hardens.

“I did as you asked before and you nearly died. None of your people would forgive me if it happened again.” Her eyes say she would not forgive herself, either.

“You saved me before, though,” Lorniel says. She has recalled some of their escape from Carn Dûm and she is sure of this. She has asked the others, too, but they were all reluctant to speak of it. “ _Se ú navaer_ , yes?” Esterín goes stiff.

“You remember that.” It is not a question. “It nearly failed.” She reaches for Lorniel’s shoulder and says something Lorniel does not understand. Warmth passes over her, a faint wave of sensation that she notices only because she knows something is happening. Esterín turns away. “The others are waiting for us.”

Illusions spin around them as they fight their way forward. Mordirith taunts them, drawing them in.

“What do you know of your father’s time in my care?” his voice whispers in Lorniel’s ear. “What has he truly told you?” She shakes her head as if she can dislodge his words. “He has looked into the palantír. Has he told you all that he has seen?”

It does not matter. Even if the False King speaks true, it changes nothing. The Iron Crown falls today. Lorniel leads the charge through the final door.

Mordirith’s laughter echoes through the throne room. Lorniel sets her back to her father’s and fights an image of herself, broken and bloody and far too solid to be only an illusion.

“Enough!” Golodir shouts. “Face us yourself, Mordirith!”

“As you wish, Golodir.” There is a smile and an edge that chills Lorniel in his voice, sourceless no longer but directly in front of her, a wicked blade swinging for her neck. Golodir cries out but Lorniel catches Mordirith’s sword on her own crossed with Pinachar. Metal shrieks as her sword folds before the blow, but Pinachar holds. A heavy fist catches her in the middle and she flies backwards, skidding and tearing skin on the jagged iron grating of the throne room’s floor. She struggles to her knees and fights for breath. Lightning flashes in the center of the room, the light reflecting off Forhathel’s blade as it bites into Mordirith’s side. He screams and Lorniel’s heart leaps. It is working. She pushes herself up and rejoins the fight.

At last Mordirith’s guard drops again. Forhathel sinks half its length into his body. Its light flares, blindingly bright, and the blade snaps in two. They are all thrown away by the force of its release and when they recover, Mordirith is on his knees. 

“How…” They close around him as he struggles to gather himself. Lorniel stands before the Steward of Angmar, Pinachar in hand. He laughs between great, echoing breaths. “It matters not. In the end, you victory here means nothing. I will return in time.”

Lorniel knows this. It had been a subject of much discussion when they had first conceived this plan in the caverns they had come to call home. Impermanent as this defeat might be, it will shatter the grip of the Iron Crown on Angmar and enable their resistance to make real gains before a new power rises to seize control of the Witch-king’s realm. The fact does not make this fight any less meaningful.

“Let us be done with this,” Mordirith says. Lorniel steps forward and raises her dagger. Pinachar, the Little Avenger, striking for a thousand lesser hurts and a hundred dead friends in the last decade of an endless war here in the north. For Palandur and all the others lost in Rammas Deluon, for Corunir’s lonely watch in Aughaire, for the descendants of Arthedain and Rhudaur allied once more to fight the Shadow. She drives the blade home and Mordirith screams and flees, Pinachar dropping to the ground in his wake.

“Long may the wound pain you,” Lorniel spits.

The Iron Crown is broken. Before they may revel in this triumph, a strange old woman appears and makes off with the palantír. They have little choice but to retreat to Gath Forthnír, where their friends anxiously await their return. There is celebration at Mordirith’s fall, but it is tempered by the awareness that he will return and by the strangeness of Sara Oakheart. Esterín departs soon after to bring the news of Mordirith’s defeat south. Lorniel coordinates strikes against the forces of Angmar, fallen into disarray without Moridirith, and push many of them back into their strongholds in Urugarth and Carn Dûm. Golodir and a handful of others search for Sara Oakheart. They find her within a day of Esterín's return, lurking brazenly, if such a thing is possible, in the center of the Circle of Despair.

"I don't trust it," Lorniel says. Esterín sits across from her, hands folded before her. "Why is she there so openly?"

"It seems like a trap," Golodir agrees. Esterín nods along.

"She has the palantír. She may understand its use. Can we afford to ignore her?"

Lorniel sighs and stands straight, stretching. The soreness has yet to fully retreat from her neck and upper back. "No." She must admit that this is something they must address.

"Then I will go and see what might be learned," Esterín says. Lorniel looks at her sharply.

"Alone?"

She shrugs. "If, as you suspect, it is a trap, it makes sense to send as few as possible."

"If it is a trap," Lorniel says, watching Esterín, "what do you suppose that will mean for you?"

"I have no idea."

Lorniel takes a deep breath. "I don't like this." She looks to Golodir. "Do you have another plan, Father?" She greatly hopes he does.

He does not.

Lorniel shakes her head and leans over the table. "Don't tell Corunir. If he hears, there is little you can do to keep him from following you." Esterín smiles faintly.

"So I have learned. Has he always been like this?"

Golodir laughs and Lorniel has to grin. "All our lives. Be careful, Esterín."

"I will be," she says solemnly. "I promise you."

Lorniel sighs and sinks into a chair once Esterín is gone. "I hate that she's right about this."

Golodir nods. "It is always the hardest part."

Lorniel has just begun to worry in earnest when Areneth calls her to the doors. Esterín has returned, and she looks much the worse for wear, for all she bears no obvious injuries. She is pale and unsteady on her feet, leaning heavily against the stone walls to stay upright. Lorniel offers her arm and quickly finds herself supporting nearly all of Esterín’s weight, which is considerably less than she had expected.

“Was it a trap, then?” Lorniel asks quietly, aiming for lighthearted but not entirely succeeding. Esterín huffs an almost-laugh anyway.

“A very strange one. We should find Golodir and Laerdan. Anyone who should hear this. I would rather recount it only once.”

A hint of foreboding lays itself lightly across Lorniel’s heart. “Alright.”

Esterín’s tale is indeed strange. Lorniel does not miss the way Laerdan flinches at the mention of Amarthiel. She corners him when Esterín reaches the end of her endurance and has no choice but to sleep.

“Laerdan, you have been a friend and a voice of wisdom for both me and my father here,” she begins. Laerdan stares at the wall rather than meet her eye. He must know where this is going. Lorniel drops the meandering line of questions she has prepared. “You know this Amarthiel. Far better than you would like- or would like us to know, I suspect. Please, tell me.” Laerdan at last meets her gaze and she nearly recoils at the pain she sees there.

“Your eyes are sharper than I might wish, sometimes,” he says. “It is not a pleasant tale.”

“Perhaps,” she says when he does not elaborate. “But it may be necessary to tell it. This champion seeks a ring of power and has a palantír with which to seek it. We will need every advantage to stop her.”

Laerdan touches a spot near his breast. Lorniel has seen the gesture often from him in times of trouble. “You may be right, Lorniel. But I am not certain I can give you the answers you seek just yet.”

“If not me, then perhaps my father, or Esterín. Or perhaps in writing, if it comes to it.” She lays a hand on Laerdan’s shoulder. “Thank you for all that you have done already. I am sorry that it hurts. We will help you, if you let us.” She turns to go.

Laerdan sighs behind her. “You are far too much like your father, I think,” he says with a touch of wryness. He draws a piece of jewelry, a pendant or locket by the look of it, from beneath his clothing. He stares at it. “My daughter, Narmeleth, was once a great elven-smith. She made many beautiful things…”

Laerdan was right. The story is unpleasant in the extreme. Lorniel hears him out, asking only what is necessary to follow the line of the tale. 

“Thank you,” she says gently when Laerdan at last falls silent. Laerdan shakes his head.

“The hour is late. Tell your father, and Esterín if you must, but I would rather this not become common knowledge. It can bring nothing good.” Lorniel hesitates, but she nods and leaves Laerdan to his thoughts.

Esterín leaves the next day for Tinnudir with Laerdan only hours behind her. Only Esterín returns, weeks later. She looks even more worn than she had on her return from Barad Gúlaran. Lorniel embraces her and she shakes as she recounts the disasters in Annúminas. She does not stay long in Gath Forthnír- she never does, Lorniel supposes. They do not see her again until she returns with Narmeleth just long enough to make the final push to destroy Mordirith and his lieutenant with more finality than they had managed before. Angmar falls and Lorniel is too busy with what remains to worry for her friends, even those that she sees daily. She has little time too to mourn those lost, though she has become far too adept at multitasking grief.

Months after Mordirith’s last defeat, Esterín appears one more time. She has a summons, now, and Lorniel rubs the soreness from her neck and decides she is quite ready to leave Angmar behind for awhile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some translations for the elvish:  
> -Se ú navaer = this is not farewell [hopefully. that one im least certain of but...]  
> -Cuio! = live (imperative)
> 
> pinachar, the dagger, is 'little avenger', as mentioned. the sword, forhathel, is 'blade of the north', and i have an abundance of thoughts on those & dúnachar
> 
> other things of note... no, i'm not sure exactly how to work this into the larger 'verse of this series other than that it would involve a significant number of edits to both 'beacons' and 'moon'. until such time as that happens, i suppose this can be considered an au of the au. lorniel lives and hangs out in angmar and eventually leaves with the grey company, which will be the potential part 2. eventually. there's a whole list of stuff i intend to write Eventually for this verse...


	5. Corunir & Esterín (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set a few days after the battle of the black gate at cormallen. this one's also very short

Corunir lays on the cot and glares at the leg that still stubbornly refuses to support his weight. He had been told off by no less than three different people last time he tried, but there is still too much he does not know and he itches to get up and track down answers. He is contemplating the best way to try again when he hears raised voices at the entrance of the near-full tent.

“I am _fine_ ,” one insists, being firmly sat on a stool near an empty cot. “I swear I am well enough to walk from one end of the field to the other without collapsing.” Corunir’s breath catches. Golodir had said she was whole when he had come to visit Corunir early that morning, but seeing is another matter entirely.

“Esterín!” he calls. Her head turns instantly. As soon as she sees him she is moving again, heedless of the irritated orders to sit back down. Corunir pushes himself upright and ignores the way every muscle in his body protests and as soon as Esterín sits beside him he pulls her close. She makes a small sound but doesn’t pull away, her fingers digging into his shoulder with the same desperate strength with which he grips the loose linen of her shirt. They stay like that for a long time, clinging to one less friend lost to this fight (necessary but so very painful). Corunir tries and fails to forget his last sight of her, falling as the eagles struck at the fell-beasts from above.

Wetness against his hand finally forces him back to the world. He looks, and fresh blood glistens in the sunlight from outside. He breaks the embrace with a muttered curse. “Est, you’re bleeding.” 

“This again," she mutters, seeming far less concerned than such a situation merits, looking first down at her chest and then craning to see her back, though it clearly pains her to do so.

“Again?” Corunir is impressed he manages no more than _mild_ alarm. Esterín continues to mutter- mostly curses directed at the fell-beasts and their riders- as she tries to reach her back and stop the bleeding herself. She winces at the motion until Corunir tugs her hand away and replaces it with his own. It’s not an unreasonable amount of blood, really, but ideally his friend would not be bleeding at all, thank you very much. “Have you heard much news?” he asks to distract himself, as if knowing more of the battle will somehow hurt less than simply imagining the worst.

Esterín looks away for a time, but her hand is steady against his shoulder as she tells him what she knows of the aftermath of the Black Gate. The bleeding has stopped by the time she falls silent and Corunir can only stare blankly at hands sticky with drying blood until Esterín takes them in her own and gently cleans the mess away with water from a nearby table.

“That’s… a lot,” he says finally. Esterín laughs softly but without humor.

“It is.” They say nothing more, just sitting together until they are finally interrupted by healers on their rounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops i got super attached to est & corunir's relationship lol
> 
> yes it is very similar to the first one


	6. Faeron, Radanir, Lothrandir & Esterín [au]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did think i was done writing stuff for est for awhile and was gonna do more isena & isedd, but then the royal wedding happened and est decided i was not actually done lmao
> 
> do Not think too much about the timelines haha- the main est story has the wedding after all of black book has run its course, but this one puts it where lotro actually put it, right in between the end of the vales story and the jump to minas morgul

Faeron catches sight of Esterín halfway between the Second and Third Circles of the city. At first he isn’t sure it is her- he sees a flash of color against white stone and a glimpse of a face that seems familiar but no more. He is good with faces, but he knows too that as often as not it is no more than wishful thinking. Still, he follows after her, now very much wishing he had brought Rhadrog along. Really, anyone he could hand the basket to before running after maybe-Esterín would do. Instead, he is forced to weave his way through the crowds gathered in Minas Tirith for the wedding at a snail’s pace and nearly loses her at least four times. At last she stops at a half-empty stable on the Third Circle and Faeron can close the gap. He can hear her laughter as he enters the stable behind her.

“Don’t get _too_ comfortable, my friend,” she says, tending to her horse- Lakewind, who had traveled south with the Grey Company. “We won’t be here that long.”

“Surely you will stay at least until the wedding?” Esterín turns and her surprise is clear to see. “It’s only a few days away, now.” She smiles and studies his face.

“I suppose that’s what all the flowers are for? It’s a rather more colorful place these days.” Faeron laughs at that and trades the basket for the bags in Esterín’s arms. The bags are noticeably lighter.

“Come on,” Faeron says, patting her shoulder. “The others are waiting on that basket.” He leaves the stable before Esterín can protest. She laugh-sighs behind him and he can hear her following. Faeron leads the way up to the next Circle of the city and back between a number of close-packed buildings until green opens up around them and they stumble into a hidden stand of trees and grassy space tucked against the stone of the mountain here at the far end of the Circle. Esterín is still taking it in when Faeron relieves her of the basket. Most of the surviving Grey Company is gathered here, less those already gone north and with the addition of Rhadrog, who helps Faeron unload lunch from the basket while the rest welcome Esterín back.

“We were beginning to wonder if even you could get lost here,” Culang calls to Faeron as they settle.

“Please,” Faeron scoffs. “And who would you have sent to find me if I had? Brungos?” Brungos’s retort is lost under a round of laughter but for a muttered _one time_.

The food is handed out in short order, and soon after Esterín becomes the target of a thousand questions. Her last two months make for quite the tale, even if she can hardly get through one question before there are another three presented, and at last she just laughs and shakes her head.

“It is a long story anyway, but it takes much longer if I must keep jumping from point to point.” That earns another laugh and, at last, a pause in the flood of questions. 

“Might I have my bags back now?” she asks, stealing a bite of food in the lapse. Faeron nearly says no. Taking them had brought Esterín along more reliably than just about anything else he might have said or done, and the last time the Grey Company had let their runekeeper out of their sight she had disappeared for two months without a word, apparently to galavant through wood and mountain in the north alone.

The good mood of the others is infectious, though, and Faeron knows for a fact he is not the only one who will want better answers out of their friend. He hands over Esterín’s possessions with a half-smile and lets it go for the time being. She catches his eye and he wonders how transparent he is.

“The rest of Minas Tirith hasn’t slowed down even overnight for at least a week,” Amlan says. “But we have not been less busy since… I don’t know when. It has been a strange few days.”

Eventually the excitement born of reunion calms, though they are all still full of restless energy. For her own part, Esterín is tired from the long journey south and it is starting to show. They don’t make it easy for her to extract herself from the picnic, however.

“I suppose we are lucky you returned to Minas Tirith when you did,” Golodir says the third time she makes to leave. She sits back down. “We had no idea where you were to send word.”

“We couldn’t even prevail upon Gandalf to do something wizardly to help, because he has been gone nearly as long as you have,” Corunir grumbles. And Esterín laughs, and explains that she had left both Gandalf and the wedding party at Grimbeorn’s home to come south at her own pace. They can’t be more than a week behind her.

Finally she makes it to her feet and waves. “Don’t forget to meet us back here tomorrow!” Brungos calls after her, grinning at Faeron. “We are fighting Rhadrog’s company for Faeron’s- _oof_.” Something suspiciously boot-shaped nails Brungos in the chest. Esterín shakes her head and leaves to find somewhere to stay the night. Brungos opens his mouth again, sights set on Faeron, but Faeron leaves before he can get another word in, making a note to himself to get Brungos lost on the Third Circle again before the wedding.

Esterín is halfway back to the main road on this Circle before she realizes Faeron is following her. She really must be tired. “I will be able to find my way back,” she assures him. He shrugs.

“I don’t doubt it.” He a little bit doubts it. There is no simple path back to the main roads from here. “I am just taking the excuse to escape for a few minutes.” Esterín laughs.

“What is this fight about, then?” she asks.

Faeron gives an exaggerated sigh and falls in beside her. “There seems to be some disagreement between the Grey Company and the Rangers of Ithilien about where Rhadrog and I should end up next.”

Which is an oversimplification of the situation, of course, but not untrue. The two of them have spent much of their time together since their return from Agarnaith, to the point that the Grey Company all but adopted Rhadrog. Not long after, the Rangers of Ithilien turned the same attention on Faeron. Esterín asks after Viznak, but he is still back in the swamp which, all things considered, is probably for the best. Faeron sees Esterín safely to a room for the night and briefly considers borrowing something small from her bags. She would know it was him, of course, and likely would track him down as soon as she noticed- hopefully after sleeping. Instead, he simply rests a hand on her shoulder and wishes her goodnight. She smiles and waves.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

\-----------

Esterín finds her way back to the clearing the next day (and only gets a little lost on the way) and it turns out ‘fight’ is not quite the word for what the two companies of Rangers have in mind. Instead, an elaborate game of hide-and-seek takes shape. Faeron and Rhadrog are designated as referees and the green space- much larger than it had seemed the day before- defines the bounds of the game. Rhadrog’s company hides first, vanishing into the trees like ghosts, and despite the limits of the grove it still takes the Grey Company the better part of two hours to track them all down. Esterín makes a decent accounting of herself in the first half and hopes she won’t embarrass herself too badly in the second. They break for snacks and water and then it is the Grey Company’s turn to hide.

Esterín finds a perch in a dip atop a boulder displaced from a spot higher up Mount Mindolluin unknown years before and prepares to wait. It turns out to be a much shorter wait than she expected, though not because of any undue lack of skill on her own part. Not quite half an hour in she hears voices nearby, below her hiding place. They are familiar, but the last she knew they were also back in Eriador. She peers around the edge of her boulder and promptly startles so badly she falls from her spot entirely. Fortunately for her, the ground is not so far away that she does herself real injury. Less fortunately, nearly all of the Ithilien Rangers see it, and no small number of the Grey Company besides.

\---------

Lothrandir never had made it all the way back to Sûri-kylä. He had intended to, and had certainly _wanted_ to, but there had been no time. They had made decent enough time north, even with Wenda and the Hebog-lûth dissenters who joined them in Dunland. Lothrandir, Radanir, and Braigiar spent only a night in Lhanuch but quite a bit longer with Saeradan and Candaith north of Bree, and after that there had been the matter of sending news to every major Dúnedain outpost and settlement, especially those that had lost someone to the Grey Company- which was most of them. Then there had been the stop in the Angle, and then the stop in Rivendell where they had barely had time to give their own accounts before another messenger’s news sent the Last Homely House into a frenzy of packing and preparations. Not long after that, the fragment of the Grey Company in Eriador agreed to return to Gondor for the wedding and set out, having never made it farther north than Tinnudir.

A week into the return journey, they woke to find they had an extra companion. Braigiar groaned when he saw her, but Lothrandir could only laugh. He and Bregelian had traveled through much of Rohan together years before and it was always good to have her along. Braigiar put on quite the long-suffering little brother performance- and has kept it up all the way into Gondor- but it hardly fooled even the horses. Bregelian did eventually admit that, even if she was not precisely supposed to be here, she wasn’t expressly supposed to _not_ be here either. She had not been farther south than the Redhorn Pass in years and was eager to travel again.

Upon their arrival in Minas Tirith, they had run into Mírthel (almost literally) hurrying through the streets. The Ithilien Ranger beckoned them along behind him until they found themselves here in this stand of trees with Esterín falling off a boulder and landing at their feet.

“I know it’s been a couple months, but I wasn’t expecting you to be _that_ excited to see us,” Radanir says, standing over Esterín and offering her a hand up.

“I thought you were going north,” Esterín wheezes as Radanir hauls her to her feet. Lothrandir tries not to laugh from where he stands with Braigiar and Bregelian. 

“We did, and here we are again. We could hardly miss our chieftain’s wedding now, could we?” 

Esterín’s tumble from the rocks causes enough of a commotion to draw the rest of the Rangers out of the trees, and one by one they enter the clearing. Lothrandir has not been away as long as Saeradan and Candaith, but after the long journey spent together it was strange to be separated from the others for so long and it is good to see them again. Esterín hangs back, and at first Lothrandir thinks she is only sore from the fall, but when he looks closer he knows the face she's making. She had worn it after Isengard any time she looked at him and thought too much. She wears it now when she looks at Candaith, her hand straying towards her rune-bag as if expecting a fight- or injury. Perhaps waiting for Candaith to make the first move. Even with warning, seeing him again after believing him dead for so long is a shock for all of them. Lothrandir wants to pull her aside, convince her not to take any more blame on herself, but he knows as well as any that those feelings heed no logic, and that there is no absolution here that he can provide. He sighs, and tries to make it good-natured, and pulls her into the whirl of warm embraces and laughter, and doesn't miss the surprised but grateful look she shoots him over Saeradan's shoulder. 

“Esterín!” Radanir calls. “I hope you have not forgotten about those drinks you owe me!” Esterín hesitates for just a heartbeat.

“How could I? Have you invited anyone else since last I checked?” Radanir laughs and introduces Bregelian and Lothrandir catches Faeron explaining the situation to a number of the southern Rangers- and perhaps inviting them along to this long-planned evening together, too.

By now there are rather a lot of them to fit comfortably in one tavern, especially with the city already packed with travelers come to attend the wedding. This patch of green has served them well enough thus far, though, and quite honestly many of them are more at home among the trees here than they would be on crowded streets. They meet there again that evening and eat and drink together as fireflies dance around them and it is warm well apart from the midsummer weather. 

Esterín takes a flask from the rune-bag that never leaves her side and hands it to Radanir with a grin that is trying very hard not to be mischievous. “I did owe you in particular a drink,” she says. Radanir eyes first Esterín and then the flask. “This was a gift from my friend the West-wind in Skarháld.” Radanir grins back at her and takes a large drink. And then nearly spits it all back out again.

“No wonder that thing is nearly full,” he coughs over Esterín’s laughter.

“It is a bit strong for nights on the road,” she admits, passing over some water. “But I rather like it, honestly.”

They stay late in the trees, that night and the next. The third night after the arrival of Lothrandir and the others is the wedding. They have all managed to find something appropriate to wear and Lothrandir has to admit it is rather strange to be out of anything even approaching Ranger gear. It is even stranger to see all the rest of the Grey Company similarly dressed, even Esterín, who looks more and more like a Ranger herself the longer she spends with them. Their rayed-star pins, the one adornment none of them would ever dream of going without, glitter in the light of torches and the setting Sun. Esterín’s wooden star hangs from her rune-bag, which she has not left aside even here. They stand together as Gandalf speaks and at long last Aragorn is wed. The people of Minas Tirith cheer their King and new Queen, but Lothrandir and the Grey Company cheer first a friend or captain or chieftain. The feast that follows is magnificent, but honestly Lothrandir remembers very little of the details afterwards. There was warmth and laughter and good company and really, that was all that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2.5k! i was. very much expecting this to run much longer no matter how i tried to contain it lol


	7. Corunir & Esterín (3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> est & corunir? est/corunir? i dunno man i don't plan Anything i just like these guys
> 
> anyway it's set right on the heels of black book and detours halfway through for est backstory
> 
> and shout-out to spellcheck for its dedicated efforts to change loeglond to legoland and corunir to coroner

Est takes her time leaving Járnfast, copies of Khîl’s book for Gandalf and other scholars in her bag. She stops in Erebor and visits the Gem-cutters, preparing to follow Durin to Elderslade. She stops in Dale and looks around. She stops in Lake-town and looks in on people who might be her distant kin. She stops and looks at Smaug's bones, partly to make sure no one else has been poking at them but mostly to stall some more.

She gets to Loeglond. She walks around and tries to make better conversation with the people here than she had last time she came through. She has a late lunch (or early dinner) with a girl she grew up with, who spends her days working the rafts while Est adventures. It’s kind of awkward, but nice in a weird kind of way.

After that, it's either go home or leave. She's wandering along the Greenwood edge of town, still stalling, when she hears a familiar voice of a decidedly different tone than the raft elves. She doesn't _quite_ go running.

“Corunir!”

He turns just in time and gets a chest full of Est hug. She knows it’s more exuberant than she normally is, and far more affectionate than even the Loeglond elves are. She doesn't really care. Corunir probably tries to say both ‘it's good to see you’ and ‘hey is everything alright’, but what he gets is ‘it's good to alright?’

Esterín thinks it's hilarious. There’s some small talk, and eventually she gets to “Why are you here?”

“I was looking for you,” he says with a smile. “You're hard to find sometimes.”

“So I've been told.” She wonders what the problems are now, to have driven him to chase her across the mountains and Mirkwood both.

“Is there a good place to stay here, do you know? Or perhaps in Lake-town if not here?”

“I have a house,” she says before she thinks about it. “There's plenty of space.”

Corunir doesn't seem to notice her unease until they're standing at the door, the old key in her hand.

“What is it?”

Her smile is brittle. “The place is a mess, I'm sure. It's been awhile since I've been back.”

“Est-”

She opens the door and steps inside, and is so incredibly glad she isn't alone. She stops in the kitchen and stares at nothing, because all of it is empty and it has been for two and a half centuries. If it weren't for the sound of Corunir's feet behind her on the wooden floor, she might have stood there in the suffocating nothing for hours or days.

There's dust everywhere, and any food she had left here is long since gone. She cleaned the place, made plans to go to Felegoth to study a bit more with Celion, and never looked back. She isn't sure what she expected, honestly, but nothing has really changed. Aelinil's room is as he left it the day he left for Mithlond. Suntais's room is still closed up as they had left it- Aelinil hadn't disturbed it after their departure and Esterín left not long after his. It's quiet.

Esterín waves at the couch. “We can brush off the dust and rearrange, or you can take one of these rooms if you'd like.” She looks around. “Sorry about the dust… it might actually be worth the ride to Lake-town.”

Corunir shrugs. “I've certainly slept worse places, and we're already here.”

Est definitely doesn't flinch at the idea of staying. “Ok.” She stares at the cupboards. She still hasn't moved from where she stopped. She thinks Corunir is more interested in looking around a place she called home than watching her too closely. She lets out a breath.

“All I have to eat is the road food I've had with me for some time,” she says apologetically. “We can find something at the docks though, probably.” No, it does not matter that she really just ate and no, she is _not_ running from the house.

They go on a little tour of Loeglond. It's a small place, so it's a short tour. Est stalls before going back, watching stars and lantern light play on the lake. Corunir sits beside her and says nothing for awhile. It’s odd, having this much peace. They haven’t been afforded this kind of ease in all the time they’ve known each other.

“You never said why you came looking for me.”

“You know about the wedding, right?”

“Yes.”

“I know we only just got back from Gondor and all, but I wanted to ask if you wanted to go south again together.”

Est blinks. “You came all the way here to ask me that?”

He shrugs self-consciously. “Well, I tried to find you in Rivendell, but they said you had already moved on. I didn’t exactly _intend_ to come almost to the feet of the Lonely Mountain. Anyway, Golodir is riding south with Saeradan and Candaith and a few people from the Angle, but it felt weird riding off without you, so...”

 _That’s sweet_. And it means more to her than she expected to know they continued to think about her. “It sounds a little bit as if you are avoiding anyone from the Angle.”

“Hardly. It’s just a useful side effect.”

She laughs. They’re sitting close together on the docks, knees and shoulders touching. Est kicks off her shoes and lets her feet dangle in the water. “Of course I’ll come.” She thinks about Lakewind and has a moment of guilt for the thought of taking him out again, even at a leisurely pace. “The wedding is at Lithe, right? That doesn’t leave us much time.”

“We’ll make it,” he says confidently.

There’s silence. The idea of even more travel doesn’t bother her. She thought it might, after so much back and forth, but a quiet journey with a friend seems nice, actually. (And much preferable to staying here, where she has no idea what to do with herself.) 

It’s getting late, even the bugs going quiet. Something nudges her under the water and she chases it with her foot. She doesn’t want to go back to the aching-empty house. (She misses them, even after all this time. _Stars_ she would hardly even know them now. They would know her even less.)

“That’s your home, isn’t it?” Corunir asks.

 _It’s my house, at least_. “It is.”

“Why does it hurt you so much?”

 _Oh_. Her breath catches and she chokes on a laugh. “I didn’t think it was that obvious.”

“Give me a _little_ more credit than that,” he says, almost offended. She shakes her head and pulls her feet out of the water.

“It’s too empty,” she says very quietly. She can feel Corunir press closer to her and leans into it. “Just dust and memory now.” She curls into herself. “I never wanted to go back.” She closes her eyes and presses her head to Corunir’s shoulder.

“We can go,” he offers. “Grab our stuff and find somewhere else for the night.”

Est shakes her head. “No. It’s too late in the night, and it wouldn’t be fair to you or the horses. We could all use some proper rest.”

“Alright.” She can practically hear his disbelieving _if you say so_.

She takes a breath and stands. “I needed to do this at some point anyway, I suppose.” She smiles in the starlight. “I’m just glad I’m not here alone.” He takes her offered hand to stand and doesn’t let go as they return to the house. Her grip tightens when they cross the threshold but after a moment she lets go. She moves around the house, trying to make it habitable for a night at least. It’s an interesting time, and results in a lot of sneezing. Eventually they give up, open the windows for some not-dust air, and curl up in their traveling gear, Corunir on the couch and Est in her old bed.

Esterín doesn't sleep. Rather, she does sleep, generally speaking, and more so than the typical elf can be said to sleep, but she doesn't sleep that night. She stares at the blue almost-light that shines through the glass here and drowns in memories instead.

It was _so long ago_ but it feels like yesterday. Suntais left with Seilphir and it was just her and Aelinil, and there were long empty spaces in their conversation even when they went out on the lake together. Esterín was more ready to fight after Edhelion, and even the five centuries since have not dulled that. Aelinil didn't know how to deal with a warrior daughter- and Est was by then, even if she never would have said as much of herself. She always carried a rune of lightning on her, and if you startled her you would find yourself on the receiving end. It was a bittersweet belonging, just the two of them, but she and her father both did their best and she was happy more than not.

But he wouldn't stay. The one thing Esterín never understood was that decision. He had loved a human woman, from the North-men that lived on the lake in Esgaroth-that-was so very long ago. He loved the Long Lake and the life in Loeglond. He said he always meant to sail one day, to see what lay there, but Est… she has never felt of Valinor that it was something real. It was a distant fantasy, a pretty way to speak of what came after. She saw Mithlond with Talagan, heard the gulls above the grey ships, and though she knows in mind that she could take that road, it has never _felt_ like an option. But it was for her father, and when he told her of his intentions he said he had always imagined she would come with him. She said no before he even really asked. He looked at her, sad and hurt, but she shook her head. “It's not for me.”

He thought she meant not now. At the time, perhaps she did. Perhaps she was lying to herself, or perhaps she hadn't yet fully decided. No matter how much she pressed though, no explanation he gave made her understand. Suntais's decision had made sense. Even now, Aelinil’s does not. _Am I not enough for you to wait_? Esterín had thought. She never said it aloud, though. She didn't want a bitter parting. She never doubted that he loved her, and she knew as well as he that she was an elleth grown and fully her own person. If she was not ready, she was not subject to her father's whim or will in this. It still hurt.

She saw him off at the Forest Gate, and then she went home. She never expected it would feel so empty. It seemed her every step echoed off glass and wood, though not much had truly changed. It was hardly the first time she had been alone in the house on the rafts, but it felt so very different. The silence rang and she jumped at little noises. _Alone. She was alone_. Neighbors knocked but she didn't answer or dealt with them in rote politeness. She shut the door and it echoed.

She stood once for near three days at the door to her father's room. Winter returned to the lake, brief but fierce, and when she finally came out of it, she shook with cold.

There was another survivor of Edhelion in Loeglond- Isgalen, who had been one of the Guard. Esterín hardly knew him, but they shared some quiet fellowship. Est went to him after she woke from her trance and they talked, of loss and pain and sudden change.

“I couldn't stay in the mountains,” he admitted. “Every time I looked north I felt like I was there again.” That, Est understood.

“It helped, you know, to have people,” he said. “Even if they didn't really understand, I didn't feel so alone.” There was an offer of more there, too, a reaching-out from someone who might understand. Est backed away from it, though. She was still mourning her father- he wasn't dead, of course, but it _felt_ like death and some part of her knew even then that she wouldn't see him again. She thanked Isgalen and left.

Within a week she left Loeglond altogether. Locked the house, packed for travel, and left. She didn't come back until the chase for Karazgar forced her path.

She wandered between libraries and the last elven strongholds for two and a half hundred years, alone, feeling like a ghost and never staying long enough to become a fixture or to be remembered. When Elrond sent her to Celondim and she was inexorably drawn into the great drama of the times, it was the most connected to the world she had felt in a very long time. It was terrible, and when she was enough in her own mind to notice, it _hurt_ , so badly, to be alone. She doesn't want that pain again, and she doesn't want that fog. It terrifies her, the idea of going back to that.

So here and now she turns her face into her cloak, a gift from the rangers months and months ago now, and weeps at the pain and fear as fresh as it was the day Aelinil disappeared from her sight for the last time.

“...Esterín?” _Ah. Damn_. She sits up and wipes at her face, but it does little to help the situation. Corunir’s face appears at the half-closed door.

“Sorry. I hoped I wouldn’t wake you.”’

“You didn’t. Don’t worry.” The bed dips as he sits beside her, rests hands on her shoulders. “What is it?”

She just shakes her head. She opens her mouth but only a broken sob escapes. She reaches for Corunir and he pulls her to him. She can only cling to him and shake with all the ache in her, trying to press herself closer, desperate for any bit of contact, of warmth, to prove she is not alone here. She can hear Corunir’s voice in her ear as she jerks with silent sobs, distant, whispering reassurances and gentle reminders. She doesn’t know how long it is before she can manage words, but when she does she bites out answers for him bit by bit. She owes him this much of an explanation at least.

“I understand,” he says, so softly, and she knows he does. She had known it when she met him in Aughaire, when they crossed the watchers together.

“Not alone,” she whispers, with all the strength of an oath. “Neither of us. Not again.” His breath catches.

“Yeah. Alright.” A hand strokes her hair and she tries to burrow herself somehow deeper into the embrace. “For as long as we both walk these shores.”

They fall asleep twined together there, and for her own part Est is sore all over when she wakes from the fierceness with which she had clung.

“I’m sorry,” she says as they eat a berry breakfast. “Last night I was…”

Corunir shakes his head. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.” A moment passes. “I think I understand some things better now.” He smiles, teasing and gentle. “And Valar know you’ve seen me in as bad a state.”

Est smiles back. “Maybe. Still, thank you.” He lets his arm rest alongside hers across the table.

“Why were you up, if I didn’t wake you?” she asks.

He shrugs with a little laugh. “All the sneezing from the dust gave me a headache. I just hadn’t made it to sleep yet.” Est thinks of the headaches that had plagued him after the fight in Barad Cúron and wonders if there’s more to it than he is saying.

“We could see if the Wood-men have any boats bound south along Anduin,” she says eventually. “Ride as far as Hultvís perhaps, and give the horses a well-earned rest.”

“Sure. Though, I know next to nothing about boats.”

Esterín grins then. “What a time to learn, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, adding _est and corunir roadtrip_ to the list of things i wanna write instead of finishing isena & isedd that's already half-written? yeah :/


	8. Corunir & Golodir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set at the very end of the battle at the black gate
> 
> (also. in which i continue to be overly invested in corunir apparently)

They watch the fell-beast dive again, ducking low to the ground at Braigiar's warning. Wings rush overhead, lightning flashes, and the Nazgûl wheels away, frustrated. This time. It’s only seconds before someone else shouts a warning. Corunir twists for a glimpse of the crest of the hill, hoping to the Valar that he won’t see another of his friends taken. Lightning chases the beast, but as he watches a second one descends at Esterín’s back. Half a dozen of them shout at her, but she isn’t fast enough to escape. They can only watch as the fell-beast lifts into the sky with Esterín locked in its talons. If she screams, they can’t hear it. Corunir thinks he can hear laughter, though, cold and spiteful.

And then the eagles join the fight. Half the combattants at least come to a stand-still as the great birds arrive, shrieking. The fell-beasts scream in answer, but the eagles have arrived from above and under the cover of Sauron’s unnatural clouds. They dive at the fell-beasts and tear two from the sky before their masters can turn to face the new threat.

Corunir looks at the beast that took Esterín just in time to see an eagle stagger it. Something drops from its claws and plummets.

“Esterín!”

“Corunir, watch your back,” Golodir snaps from behind him. Corunir turns, teeth gritted, and cuts down the two orcs coming at him from behind. He falls back to the crest of the hill with Golodir, eyes fixed on the battlefield.

“Did you see where she fell?” Daervunn asks. Corunir nods. “Go, bring her back.” It’s all the permission Corunir needs. He looks once at Calenglad, laid out beside their other fallen, and tries not to imagine Esterín looking the same. He can hear Golodir behind him and he runs and spares a moment to be thankful that anyone has come with him. He doesn’t trust himself to be reasonable just now, much less cautious.

They’re less than halfway there, dodging between clusters of fighting and searching for any path through, when Orodruin explodes. The earth shakes, and though Corunir staggers, unbalanced, he does not stop. He can hear Golodir cursing and slows only long enough for him to catch up.

The ground falls away as the tremors grow stronger. What it means Corunir doesn’t know, nor does he care to speculate. _The fall was high, but she could challenge Saeradan for luck. She might be alright_. Wishful thinking, but it drives him recklessly forward until stone vanishes under his foot. It’s only Golodir’s grip on his cloak dragging him backwards that saves him. 

“Calm yourself, Corunir, or we’ll never make it.” Stone cracks and fire roars out of the Black Gate with a great rush of heat forces them both to their knees. When it passes, the Gate lies shattered on the plain and their path forward is blocked by a great rent in the earth. Corunir can see the bottom vaguely in the light of the sky lit by red fire, jagged and uneven.

He notices too late that his footing is precarious. Rock slides out from under his boots and he tries to leap for solid ground on the other side of the trench, but it’s far too late and he falls headfirst into darkness. He grabs for the sides of the chasm and sharp stone tears his hands even through thick leather gauntlets, but he manages to catch hold of something. His shoulders scream in protest but he stops his fall, his lower body slamming into unseen rock.

As it turns out, he was nearly at the bottom anyway. At least he didn’t impale himself on some spur of rock or fallen spear.

“Corunir!” Golodir’s face appears above him and- oh, he fell further than he realized. It's a long way back up.

“I’m alright,” he calls, moving to brace himself against the far wall, much closer here than at the top. “Just let me- _argh_!” Fire burns along his right leg as he puts weight on it and he nearly loses his footing. “I’m fine!” He ignores the concern mounting in Golodir’s voice and braces himself. He doesn't look, but he can feel the long wound the stone cut down his leg when he hit the wall, already wet with blood. This won’t be a pleasant climb. His hands are already torn and one leg is maybe half as strong as he needs it to be- and will only get worse. _Fine job of rescuing Est_ , he thinks wryly as he all but throws himself upwards. It’s a long way. If his leg is half as bad as it feels, speed will be his only chance of climbing out.

He stops two-thirds of the way up, suddenly without handholds. His right leg is holding more of his weight than it should and he can feel it threatening to give out. Golodir says something but Corunir isn’t paying attention. It’s not just his leg whose strength is close to failing. He isn’t sure how much blood he’s losing. It feels like a lot. He shakes his head to clear it.

“Corunir!” He looks up. Golodir is leaning over the edge, arm extended, waiting for him. He’s still a long way off. “There’s a hold up and to your left. It should be sturdy enough.” Corunir follows Golodir’s direction and slowly gets back in motion. He’s glad he can’t see Golodir’s face while climbing. He really doesn’t care for worrying people, and Golodir is almost certainly wearing his ‘I Am Definitely Not Worried’ worried face. In his defense, it's a very good not-worried face, but when you wore it every time you were, in fact, quite worried, it ended up being as good an indicator of worriedness as any plain old worried face.

Golodir starts talking above him and Corunir realizes he’s stopped moving again. He reaches up. His right leg finally gives out, though he still manages to gain the next handhold. Corunir takes several deep breaths and rests his head against the rock in front of him. It’s not really any cooler than the air.

“Corunir?” He doesn’t look up. “You’re almost here. Just a little bit further.” Corunir’s right leg hangs uselessly below him and the muscles of his arms are wobbling. He shakes his head. Golodir curses and Corunir can hear small rocks clattering against each other. When he looks up, Golodir is dangling from the edge of the rift, one hand out and easily within Corunir’s reach.

“What are you-”

“Just take my hand,” Golodir says through gritted teeth, and the tone so clearly recalls younger days that Corunir obeys without question.

He helps as much as he is able, but most of the work of pulling them both clear of the chasm falls to Golodir. He manages it though, and they both collapse, panting, well away from the edge. Corunir groans when Golodir rolls him over to examine his leg but has no energy to do more.

“How did you climb as far as you did,” Golodir says half to himself. Corunir shrugs one shoulder. He had to. It's as simple as that, even if it hadn’t been quite enough. “This will hurt,” Golodir warns just before he pushes something onto Corunir’s leg. Corunir bites back a scream and twists away from it, as if he can somehow escape his leg itself, but Golodir holds him steady and pulls the makeshift bandage tight.

“We need to get away from here,” Golodir says after several minutes.

They certainly can’t stay. The ground is still unstable and the red glow from beyond the splintered Morannon is growing brighter- or maybe closer. Corunir doubts he can stand, though, and… “Esterín?”

Golodir grips his arm. “She is lucky and resourceful. If she survived the fall, I don’t doubt we will see her again.” He hauls Corunir upright and drags an arm over his shoulder. “And if things are worse than that… I cannot carry you both.” They move forward, back to the slag-hill where the rest of the Company should be.

It’s slow going. Corunir is even less help than he feared and the world is still shaking. At least it makes an effective distraction for the forces of Mordor- without it, they surely would have been swarmed within minutes.

“Corunir, stay awake.” He shakes his head once. Had he been-? He thought he had been chasing after Golodir on the fields- no. It’s Esterín he had been chasing this time, with Golodir at his side. And this time he is the one being dragged half-dead across the battlefield. He thinks this is rather funny. Golodir thinks it’s rather less so.

They are forced into the dubious shelter of a lattice of ancient metal as a handful of enraged trolls stampede past. Finally still again, Corunir can feel the last of his strength fading. He grabs for Golodir’s sleeve and thinks he mumbles an apology before everything goes dark.

\---

Golodir has a moment of blinding panic when Corunir collapses against him, but soon enough he reassures himself that Corunir is still breathing.

“You really are going to make me carry you all the way back to the camp,” Golodir says. He forces the levity into his voice (though for whose benefit he isn’t sure).

The trolls have moved past their hiding spot, but now other creatures of Mordor mill past, some in confusion, some in fear, some in full panic. One passes far too near to them and Golodir pulls back, hiding Corunir in as much shadow as can be found.

It’s nearly dark by the time the way is clear enough to risk it. Golodir manages to get what little water he has on him into Corunir, but they had come prepared today for a fight, not a march. And not a fight they expected to survive, either. Aragorn and the rest of the Host will be long gone by now, pulled back well beyond the battle-plain. Golodir can barely make out the ruins of Haerondir, but there’s just enough light left to mark its position in his mind. He pulls Corunir over his shoulders and grunts as his sore muscles protest. The fighting and the struggle at the rift would have exhausted the best of them, and Golodir is not as young as he once was. His chest still pulls as he walks, too; a memory of the fight with Thrúgrath, despite Esterín’s best efforts. He hasn’t mentioned it to her. He thinks perhaps he ought to have a reminder of that day. The thought of Esterín pricks his heart in a way that’s not at all physical. He is not half as hopeful for her survival as he had pretended for Corunir. _If, after all of this, I manage to outlive both of them_ … He shakes his head and continues on.

It’s a mark of his own exhaustion that he misses Haerondir entirely and realizes only when he stumbles into the remains of the Host’s camp. It looks as if it’s been ransacked, though by Sauron’s forces or the retreating Host it isn’t clear. A few tents remain mostly undamaged and he makes Corunir as comfortable as he can in one of them. It’s far too dark to make out any details of Corunir’s condition and he doesn’t trust their surroundings enough to light a fire, so he lays down beside Corunir with one hand on his chest to feel his breathing and falls asleep in seconds.

Golodir doesn’t know what wakes him the next morning, but the sky is just light enough for him to venture into the camp to see what might be salvageable. Most anything of use is gone, but there is enough for him to properly tend to Corunir’s injuries and he’s grateful for that much.

Corunir is awake when Golodir returns to the tent, though he’s pretending not to be.

“How do you feel?” Golodir asks as he cleans the ugly cut on Corunir’s leg. Corunir doesn’t say anything. Golodir shrugs to himself and goes to check the camp one last time before they set out. There’s rustling behind him and when he turns, Corunir is already halfway to standing. Golodir grabs him by the shoulder. “Easy. I’m only looking to see if we are alone here. Rest while you can. It will be a long walk.” Hopefully the Host removed to somewhere nearby, but if he must he will carry Corunir all the way back to Minas Tirith.

Corunir grasps at Golodir’s arm with surprising strength. “Don’t-” he winces and Golodir carefully lowers him back to the ground. “Don’t ask me to stay behind again. Please.” There is a pleading note in his voice that Golodir has not often heard. His eyes are bright and he offers no further explanation

Golodir nods slowly. “Very well.” _What is this about_? “Are you ready to move?” Relief flares in Corunir’s face and he nods and looks aside. Golodir takes a last look around from the entrance of the tent before hauling Corunir up.

Corunir fades in and out of wakefulness as they hobble along, leaving Golodir largely alone with his thoughts. Don’t ask him to stay behind? Again? He has asked Corunir to leave him be often enough recently, but staying behind? Golodir doesn’t think he has asked that perhaps of anyone since… _Angmar. I asked him to stay behind when we came to the watchers at Rammas Deluon_. Ten years ago now, give or take. That march had been nightmarish even before the stones threw forth their deadly shroud, and not long after Golodir had marked the beginning of his time in Carn Dûm. He shudders at the thought of it even now. Suddenly chilled, he pulls Corunir closer and marches on into Ithilien.

Corunir is more awake when they stop to rest near noon, hidden in a sheltered grove not far from the southern rangers’ waterfall hideout. He grimaces and shifts his leg around, but nothing seems to give any relief. 

“How do you feel?” Golodir asks. Corunir tries to grin.

“Like I gashed my leg open on some rocks.” He shrugs at Golodir’s look. “Nothing unexpected. I should have some time yet.” Golodir hopes he’s right.

“What happened in Aughaire after we left?” Golodir asks after a time. Corunir looks away.

“Nothing, really,” he says quietly.

“It hardly seems like nothing,” Golodir says. Corunir shakes his head.

“It was. Really.”

“Corunir.”

Corunir’s mouth twitches. “Not fair. Captain voice.” Golodir almost stops to ask, but he presses his advantage instead.

“Tell me.”

Corunir curls his arms around himself protectively and finds something of great interest in the trees to study for several minutes. 

“I’m sorry,” he says eventually.

Golodir looks at him. “Sorry?”

“I should have gone for help earlier.”

“What do you mean.”

Corunir shakes his head, still staring at the trees rather than meet Golodir’s eyes. “I stayed behind the stones as you said and watched all of you march on. I watched as you started dying, and I couldn’t do anything. I tried, but… I just couldn’t force my way through. I tried to follow, for years. I- Even after I recovered enough to send a message, I couldn’t bring myself to wander far from Aughaire. Most of the falcons never made it to Esteldín.” Corunir’s eyes are miles and years away. He barely twitches when Golodir shifts to see him better. “I should have gone myself, and I should have gone earlier. Maybe if I had…” He trails off into silence again.

Well then. The simple answer was yes, he should have. That was why Golodir had asked him to remain behind. They all knew a mile away that something terrible surrounded the statues. Golodir had intended Corunir to take word back to Halbarad if something went horribly wrong- as it had. Instead, he threw himself at the statues that had already killed near a third of their number until he no longer could. Golodir wonders about the recovery Corunir mentioned.

Knowing that no one had heard anything of them for so long… it was certainly a different explanation for why they had been forced to fend for themselves in Angmar for as long as they had than Golodir had feared. It’s not so much that he believed Aragorn would have left them to their fates even after disobeying him, but Golodir wouldn’t exactly have faulted him for it. If they had known earlier, if Corunir had left earlier, what might have changed? They had lost so many as the years dragged on. Elegys. _Lorniel_. Would it have saved them? The memory of Carn Dûm rises again. Would it have saved him? There is, perhaps, no way to know. _The_ palantír _might show you_. The thought rises unbidden in Mordirith’s voice and Golodir shakes his head sharply. Corunir hides a flinch at the movement.

Golodir sighs. “Yes, you should have.” Corunir takes a shuddering breath and Golodir lays an arm across his shoulders, adjusting his seat and pulling Corunir closer to lean against him. 

It would be easy to be angry. Corunir seems to expect it. _I_ am _angry_ , he admits to himself. He has been angry for a long time, though, and he has been trying to do better with it since Pelennor. He thinks of Pelargir, before they boarded the ships. _Especially with Corunir_. His loyalty is to people more than to duty and it always has been. Golodir knows that- had known that at the watchers, but there is an intensity to it that still surprises him, even after all this time. It has saved his life more than once and he knows that, too. He’s not sure he deserves that kind of loyalty.

“We are well past it now. There is nothing to gain from what-ifs.” And he is too tired to spare much strength for this right now. After a moment, Corunir’s shoulders shake and it takes a moment longer for Golodir to see it for laughter.

“I’m not sure I ever expected to hear that from you,” he says.

“Why not?” Golodir asks. 

“You haven’t exactly had luck leaving the past behind.”

Golodir snorts. “How do you think I came by such wisdom? And anyway, I hardly keep the past around for my own entertainment.” Whatever mood they are in, that sours it. _Mordirith is a plague, and it would be well worth my death to see him wiped away_. Golodir shoves the angry thought aside. There is no time to dwell on that now. He needs to get them moving before they lose the light. No one from Henneth Annûn has challenged them yet- the refuge must be minimally guarded or abandoned altogether. If that is the case, Golodir has some notion of where they will find Aragorn and the rest of the Host.

“Come on,” he says. Corunir mumbles half a question, apparently fading again already. Golodir feels a hint of guilt for disturbing him, but staying still is not an option. 

Corunir is quiet the rest of the day. At some point he loses consciousness altogether and won’t respond to Golodir’s voice. He kicks himself for not noticing sooner, but the shakiness in his own body tells him that he’s lucky to still be on his feet himself. They have little to eat or drink and Golodir has foregone scavenging in the hopes of getting Corunir to safety sooner. He pushes on as the sky darkens, losing himself in putting one foot in front of another. Despite every thought-worthy thing Corunir said, Golodir has no attention to spare. He’s lost enough in the haze that he nearly takes a swing at Lothrandir, appearing from the dark brush to guide him the last of the way to Cormallen. They see Corunir safely into the hands of the healers and Golodir all but collapses on a nearby crate.

When his thoughts are clearer he finds the count of their losses, hoping to the Valar that Corunir will not be added to the number by morning. He catches a glimpse of Esterín and follows her. He isn’t much for conversation just now, and it seems she isn’t either, but it’s good to see her up and around. Golodir winces to himself at her uncertain smile. He had been avoiding her after Pelennor, and not for any good reason. He adds it to the list of conversations to have… after a long sleep. He finds Corunir after the healers release him, intending to at least let him know their runekeeper is in one piece, but he falls asleep in the camp chair well before Corunir wakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm still trying to figure out how i wanna write golodir i think :/


	9. Golodir & Halbarad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yknow halbarad's 'this is an evil door and my death lies beyond it but i'm going anyway' line from return of the king before aragorn and co take the paths of the dead? this one's about that

“Something is bothering Halbarad,” Corunir adds, after all but begging Golodir to stay close to him when they reach the battle before the White City. “But I am not sure what it is and he told me- very politely- to back off when I asked."

Golodir snorts. "When has that ever stopped you, polite or no?"

Corunir gives him a bland smile. "I have had more practice with you- and I'm not really in the mood to get dumped in the Anduin if I push Halbarad too far." Golodir makes a thoughtful sound and Corunir levels a finger at him. "Do not get any ideas." Golodir only raises an eyebrow. Corunir sighs and leaves.

Golodir thinks he knows what's bothering Halbarad. He is less certain that there's anything he can do about it, but he goes in search of Halbarad anyway.

They had all balked before the Dark Door, bunching together and twitching at shadows, but Halbarad had stepped through after Aragorn and the rest of them followed. Golodir had been among the few close enough to hear Halbarad's words, laced with a high-pitched echo that had chilled Golodir far more than those who haunted the Paths ever could. It is an edge he has heard only a handful of times, thrice from Elegys and once from Lorniel, and now from one of his oldest friends announcing his own death.

He finds Halbarad in the bow of the ship, carefully hidden from easy view elsewhere on the Night-jewel. He takes care to step loudly enough to be heard, but even so he is nearly at Halbarad's shoulder before he is noticed. Halbarad nods a greeting as Golodir leans against the rail beside him.

"I take it Corunir found you, then," Halbarad says. "He disappeared soon after the others began discussing grouping for the coming fight." His mouth quirks. "He really is uncomfortably observant sometimes, isn't he?"

"I have noticed that myself at times," Golodir says dryly. _But I have learned a thing or two from him of persistence_. "Halbarad-" _are you alright_ is a stupid question here, though, and a broader _how are you_ is too easily dodged. "You think it's tomorrow, then?"

"Yes. We've made good time on the river. We should reach the Harlond early tomorrow." Golodir gives him a look and waits. Eventually Halbarad sighs. "Yes," he says quietly. "I think so." Golodir nods.

He knows it would be useless to suggest Halbarad stay behind. He would never agree- and fate will not be so easily cheated. _Foresight be damned_ , Golodir thinks in a sudden flash of anger. He takes a deep breath and tries to unclench his hands from the rail. “Stay near us.”

“Of course,” Halbarad says. “If this is to be my last fight, I would stand nowhere else.” He stares out across the Anduin lit dimly in the late afternoon. “This is why we came south.” They stand in silence together for several long minutes before Halbarad shivers and steps away from the rail. He sits against a barrier of crates stacked high and closes his eyes, one arm resting on a drawn-up knee. Golodir sits beside him.

Halbarad cracks an eye. “I might say something about you not taking the hint to leave me in peace, despite all your complaints about Corunir.”

“You might,” Golodir says amiably. “And I might ignore it.” Halbarad mutters something that sounds suspiciously like an insult, but Golodir can see the ghost of a smile on his face. There is a fragile, forced calm about Halbarad that Golodir recognizes all too well. He has yet to find any cure to it but time. Sometimes distraction helps, but even then it will not provide as true a peace as you might hope.

“Do you think Saeradan made it safely back to his cabin?” Halbarad asks, eyes turned northward. 

“I do,” Golodir says. “Radanir saw him and Candaith practically to Andrath. The Bree-lands should not be dangerous enough to stop the two of them.”

“Perhaps. We left the defense short-handed, though.” Halbarad’s face darkens. “It is neither impossible nor entirely unlikely.”

“And here I thought I was the pessimistic one.” Halbarad’s sharp exhale might almost be counted as a laugh.

“Who says it’s pessimism?” Golodir snorts disbelievingly at that and Halbarad shrugs concession. His left hand, balled into a fist, taps at the deck between them until Golodir grabs it. Halbarad’s hand uncurls and locks with his in an inescapable vise grip. _Valar, he’s terrified, isn’t he? And trying so hard not to be, for his own sake as much as for the rest of us_. He can feel Halbarad’s pulse, too fast against his own wrist. _But nothing short of chains would keep him from following Aragorn this time_.

“You weren’t always, you know.” Halbarad’s voice breaks Golodir from his thoughts.

“Hm?”

“The pessimistic one. Elegys always had you beaten there.”

Golodir smiles at the memories, and at the twin spikes of warmth and ache at the thought of Elegys. “It was no contest,” he agrees. “But I have never met someone so eager to be proven wrong, either.”

“You always knew we were going to have an interesting patrol when she joined us.”

“One way or another.”

They laugh, and for hours they reminisce on times decades gone as the sun sets behind the unnatural cloud cover out of Mordor. Halbarad’s grip eases bit by bit. The lanterns on the ship are lit one by one, lighting everything in a soft glow that blankets them in a haze of near-unreality. A timeless moment of memory paused just before the drop into whatever is to come.

“I still don’t know how Saeradan got away with that, the bastard,” Golodir grumbles into the night.

“Oh, Aragorn was in on it the whole time.”

“He what?” Halbarad laughs at the affront in Golodir’s tone. “All these years I thought he was just lucky.”

“He makes his own luck, like he always says.”

“You mean he cheats.”

“For sure.” Halbarad chuckles. “Though he is honestly lucky, too, I think.” The conversation lulls. Eventually Halbarad sighs and disentangles his hand to dig in a pouch at his side. “Give this to Tennivren when you return to the north, will you?” He passes over a soft leather pouch, its drawstring pulled tight. It feels like a figurine or something of the like. “I promised to find something to bring back if we found half a moment of peace.”

 _Then when did you find time to pick this up?_ If they have had more than a night of calm, it would have been at the camp with the prince of Rohan before his departure- or else in Tûr Morva before the Brenin lost whatever courage he had pretended to have. Golodir takes a breath and kicks the memories back. 

“This may be safer with one of the others,” he says. “Perhaps-”

“Perhaps, but I’m giving it to you.” There is a glint in Halbarad’s eye that stops Golodir’s protests. _Now he is the one trying to distract me? When did we trade parts in this conversation_? The doors of being known open as easily one way as the other, Golodir supposes, and they have known each other for a very long time, now.

“Very well.” Halbarad nods once, satisfied. The silence that follows has a strange quality that Golodir cannot place. Halbarad at least looks more relaxed, but his eyes are still distant. 

“Have you eaten yet?” Halbarad asks abruptly. “You will need all your strength tomorrow.” Golodir looks sidelong at him.

“What about you?”

Halbarad shrugs. “I ate late in the afternoon. I will find something later. You didn’t answer the question.”

“I- no, not yet.”

“Go find some food.” Golodir rolls his eyes and Halbarad jabs him in the ribs. “I am serious, Golodir. You don’t have to keep me company all night, either, you know.”

“Fine,” Golodir sighs, stretching legs gone stiff sitting in one place for so long. He leans over and pulls Halbarad into an embrace before he stands. “You are certain of this?” he whispers.

“I am.”

“Then I will miss you, Hal.” Halbarad’s arms tighten.

“Take care of yourself, Golodir. And thank you.”

He walks away, and is not at all surprised to find his eyes burning.


End file.
